Drones
by Ahnyo
Summary: Xord, a blacksmith from Colony 9, has been made into one of the first functioning Faced Mechon—monstrous unions of man and machine designed to ravage and destroy. Subjugated by his leader, he must carry out his every command... and if he were to resist, Egil would break him until he lost sense of who he was and every last drop of humanity was drained from his being.


_Clang. Clang. Clang._

The sound was deceptively familiar. Metal collided with metal, like a hammer striking molten iron. With his eyes closed, Xord could feel the warmth of the forge and taste the bitter smoke. He could imagine sparks jumping up from his anvil, only to flicker and be gone. Gone: just like the fleeting glimpses of the world he had left behind as he was confronted by reality.

It was pitch black. Xord blinked—slowly at first, and then rapidly—but his sight did not return. He tossed and turned, disoriented, trying to grope his way through the darkness. He was paralyzed from the neck down. He could tell that something that was supposed to be his body was there, but it was all numb.

Xord shakily brought his phantom hand to his face and jerked backward when he felt his fingers, skeletal and cold, touch his cheek. He smashed his head against a solid metal wall, filling his skull with a ringing sensation. With dizziness vibrating in his ears, Xord felt out the remaining walls of his enclosure. There was little more than a foot of space in front of him, and even less room behind him. Xord was confined within a tight, cramped container—something not unlike a coffin.

His memories came back to him in a crippling blow. A series of visions infiltrated his mind: Mechon swarming the battlefield in droves; the bodies of slain soldiers littering the ground; howls of terror reverberating off the walls of Sword Valley. At the heart of it all, Xord remembered what he had been fighting for.

Xord stood with the militia, clutching his weapon with sweaty palms. He studied the faces of the other soldiers, and was able to pick out the trained Defense Force members with ease. They were composed and their expressions were blank: they were either completely unfazed by the nearing confrontation, or they had been trained to disguise all traces of fear. They were still Homs, but they seemed almost like something else entirely. They had dedicated themselves to this kind of life. To them, the looming battle was just another day of work.

Xord was a civilian. While he regularly handled weapons and had an extensive knowledge of what made them work, he had never once wielded one in battle. A blacksmith by trade, Xord mainly catered to hobbyists and collectors. Weapons were just one of the many things he could create in his forge. When it came to machines, his expertise was second to none.

He didn't sell his wares to the Defense Force; the urgency of war demanded mass production. Xord saw it as a threat to the intimacy of his craft, but he still found a fair amount of customers who appreciated the time and effort that went into his work.

Xord was there by choice. He felt as though it was his duty, because he had someone to protect. Désirée was nearly twenty years old—old enough to fend for herself—but she was still his little girl. She meant the world to Xord, and if he lost her, he'd have nothing left to live for. Xord had already lost his wife when Désirée was but an infant, and his sudden responsibility of having to raise his daughter by himself kept him from sinking into a deep depression. He needed to be strong for Désirée. Xord couldn't imagine having the strength to lift his hammer another day if he knew he'd never be able to see his daughter's smile again.

His wife's passing had shown Xord the fragility of life. It could only take seconds for someone he loved to be ripped away from him. He swore he wouldn't let the same thing happen to Désirée, even if it meant that he would die instead.

It had been so easy to make that promise in the safety of his forge; when the possibility of war was far away on the horizon. It was only when the anticipation of battle lurched into his chest that the weight of his vow became real to him. Xord could feel fear emanating from the draftees around him. It was contagious fear; fear that gripped his whole body and turned his legs to stone.

With sweat collecting on his forehead, Xord searched again for the Defense Force soldiers. There they were: poker faced; straight backed; giving off a subtle air of readiness that was buried by the others' fear. To Xord, those bold men and women looked like machines, even more than the Mechon that would soon come crashing onto the battlefield. But Xord knew each and every one of them had something to protect, and that was what gave them their strength. Xord tried to mimic their mindset, but lost his focus when the first Mechon appeared before him.

They formed something like an ominous parade. Tiny, insect-like machines skittered at the front of the army, followed by bipedal units with weapon-like appendages. The Homs troops charged, their shouts drowning out the grinding of the machinery. In that moment, it seemed like the militia might have stood a chance, but Xord's optimism was short-lived.

Gunshots rang out, which were immediately followed by loud ricochets. Soldiers bearing swords and axes attempted to bash the Mechon, but their weapons were ineffective against their armor. The militia's morale plummeted as battle cries transformed into screams.

The world moved in slow motion as Xord stood frozen, trying to take in everything that was happening at once. Never before had he been exposed to a display of such unadulterated horror. Soldiers darted past him like he wasn't even there, and seconds later Xord would watch as their broken bodies slumped to the ground. Fallen Defense Force soldiers lay among draftees, their efforts equally futile against the invulnerable machines. People overtaken by fear would attempt to flee, only to be snatched up by Mechon lying in wait.

Everything was wrong. Only then did Xord realize that his life was just as fragile as his wife's and Désirée's. He didn't want to admit he didn't have what it took to protect his daughter, at least on the fields of war. He had his own ways of providing for Désirée, but in his eyes, it wasn't enough.

Xord evaluated his decisions, isolated from the battle raging around him in the calm of his thoughts. Was he out of his mind? He had been reckless and haughty, thinking he could take on anything. He had his limits, and he was not invincible. Though he had considerable upper body strength, he was middle-aged and very much out of shape. If only the Defense Force wasn't so desperate for volunteers, he wouldn't have been allowed to step foot on the battlefield.

Désirée was much more in tune with her father's shortcomings. Xord remembered a teary-eyed Désirée clinging to him in the doorway, begging him not to leave. He had assured her he would come back alive—another promise he would be unable to fulfill. Xord's heart turned to stone at the thought of Désirée receiving the news that her father had been killed. She needed him just as much as he needed her, and it was selfish of him to leave her so early.

There was no turning back now, though. Xord had committed himself to this destiny. All there was left to do was give it his all, and try his hardest not to let Désirée down.

The thought of her smile brought Xord back to the present, and imagining her sweet voice carried him forward. He ran, legs still stiff, into the fray, locking onto a bipedal Mechon that had strayed from its brethren. Xord bent down and aimed for its legs in hopes of toppling it, but swung too early and whiffed his target. The Mechon turned, alerted to his presence, and lashed out at his arm. The weapon flew out of Xord's grasp, landing in the dirt several feet away.

It was over. Xord, at a loss for words, gaped as the Mechon clenched and unclenched its claws. Xord's visions of Désirée faded as the mechanical unit closed its claws around his torso and dragged him away.

"Désirée!" wailed Xord, thrashing wildly. Somehow, someway, he was alive— _buried_ alive. He needed to get out and let Désirée know he was still alive. He pounded his fists, still devoid of feeling, against the wall and bellowed at the top of his lungs. _Someone_ had to be out there, producing that rhythmic clanging noise which continued as he struggled—but they couldn't hear him, or they didn't want to.

Panting, Xord let his arms drop to his sides. He became aware of the sensation of his heart thudding and blood shooting up his veins, even though he couldn't feel the rest of his body. With each heartbeat, he grew colder and weaker. His blood was being drained, propelled into foreign channels by the beating of his heart. It pumped harder, desperate to compensate for the loss, but there was little it could do. Every movement; every breath was a struggle. Xord felt himself growing fragile and hollow like the lifeless corpse he was supposed to be. He was hanging onto his consciousness for dear life.

All his blood exploded back into his body at once. Xord's face felt heavy and engorged, like it was about to burst from the pressure. Going from one extreme to another caused him to dissociate. His consciousness seemed to exit his body and rise above him. Suddenly, Xord could see. His field of view was tinted red, as though his eyes had soaked up his blood.

There was too much on Xord's mind for him to stop and take in his surroundings. His body throbbed as blood flowed in and out, as if his entire being had taken on the role of a heart. He stirred, and something around him moved and creaked. It was a terrible noise: the sound of a building on the verge of collapse. Xord panicked and willed himself to return to his body, but he remained suspended in the building. He staggered and his vision sloped to the side. The structure moved with him, shaken by an earthquake whose epicenter lay in his brain. He and the building were one.

Xord almost didn't hear the whir of the crane over the roar of blood in his ears. He followed its movement with his eyes, seemingly grateful for the distraction. Dangling from the crane was a ventilated container, which it gently set on the floor. The crate opened when the crane moved away, and a timid Ponio foal stepped out. Its gaze instantly landed on Xord and it froze, ears standing straight up and tail hanging between its legs.

Xord stared back, unsure of how to react. His eyes flitted about the animal, but his sight had disconnected from his brain. Xord didn't question why the Ponio had been put there, nor did he even register exactly what he was looking at. His mind was active, but not in a way he could understand; it was as though his head was buzzing with static.

And yet, he felt a kind of intrinsic kinship with the Ponio. They were both animals that had been removed from their habitats and relocated somewhere strange and new. For what felt like an eternity, neither of them moved. Then, Xord took in the scent of ether. It was curiously potent; Xord could smell something pleasant and invigorating mixed in with the scents of dust and earth. It roused his instinct from its dormancy, like a shark drawn to blood in the water.

The Ponio burst into a dash at Xord's slightest movement, nearly knocking itself off its feet. Xord's awareness emerged suddenly from the discord in his mind, immediately catching onto what was about to go down. Even though it screamed in protest, it made no effort to stop him. It was powerless under the primal part of his brain that bid him to carry on.

The Ponio's speed was no match for the massiveness of Xord's form. He plucked it off the ground with one decisive snatch, and it struggled and kicked wildly in his squeezing grip. Xord watched in horror as he brought the squealing creature to his face. He could see only the fear in the Ponio's black eyes; to him, the mechanical hand crushing its organs was invisible. The aroma of the Ponio's ether crept through the slats in his metal casing, even stronger than before. Xord's mind was rife with conflict. What he was doing scared and confused him, but he was so _hungry_.

A pair of broad panels on his chest popped open, revealing a serrated grate. Xord flung the Ponio into the air. It tossed and flipped violently until its body hit his chest and the panels snapped shut like a flytrap. They opened and closed again, mashing the creature into a pulp. Electricity rippled from his thoracic jaws as he noshed and chewed, breaking the foal's body down to ether. The substance oozed through the grate and into his core. A charred mass of skin and splintered bones slid out from Xord's maw and fell onto the floor.

Xord sputtered and looked at what remained of the Ponio. _He_ had done that. It was a stark contrast to what he had been capable of before; he hadn't even laid a scratch on the Mechon during the Battle of Sword Valley. He wanted to believe that he hadn't been the one to obliterate the hapless animal, but part of him was satisfied with his kill. The ether churned inside of him, giving him a pinch of rejuvenating energy. At the same time, it ignited his appetite and made him hunger for more—but more was not to be found. As his hunger grew, so did his disgust with himself. He wanted to run from the horrible thing he had become.

"No," Xord moaned. He tried not to look at the broken carcass, but the smell of death hung in the air, making sure he didn't forget what he had done. He needed to get away. Xord rushed forward, only for his chest to slam into a glass-like barrier. As he registered what had happened, he caught sight of something terrible: his reflection.

His comparatively diminutive Homs body lay within the heart of hulking metal behemoth. It had a bulky egg-shaped build and was covered in bronze armor. Only its head, which took the shape of a round, white skull, was bare. Its eyes were sunken red orbs. Long spines protruded from the sides of its jaw—not the jaw with which Xord had consumed the Ponio, but a second, smaller mouth from which he spoke. Its chest stuck out like the bow of a ship and it had a spherical abdomen that ended in a turbine-like tail. A broad structure resembling a shell hung over the back of the machine. A series of canals ran across its exterior, carrying red fluid—Xord's blood. The mechanical vessel was not a mere vehicle to be piloted by Xord—it was an extension of his body; a perfect fusion of man and machine.

The mere sight of the Mechon in the glass made Xord relive the hopeless battle once more. The instant he returned from his flashback, he punched the glass with all his might, his fist bearing the brunt of his rage. It collided with the Mechon's fist, and the two stood with their arms connected across the barrier; two titans locked together, like the Bionis and Mechonis on which they stood.

Xord let his hand slide down the glass, his mechanical form rising and falling as he panted. His eyes wandered across his reflection absently, his thoughts condensing into a cloud of denial. "No," he said again, unable to find any other words to convey his emotions. He raised his arm, which shivered as if it were made of flesh. Xord opened and closed his hand and waved his fingers, watching his motions in the glass fixedly. He let out a sorrowful moan, which rose into a howl and then died away. He bashed his head into the glass, trying to wake himself from what he wished was a nightmare. He could no longer muster the will to deny what he was seeing, but he wasn't in the mind to accept his fate. All he could do was sob and bash his head, his thoughts disintegrating into static again.

A man dressed in extravagant clothing studied Xord from an observation deck positioned above the cell, his presence unknown to the Mechon. Egil, as he was called, bore a resemblance to a Homs, though his skin was glossy silver and his features were lifeless and cold. Egil's expression was grim. His lips quivered slightly as Xord devoured the hapless foal, but his stare remained penetrative and austere. He was startled by the gruesomeness of the display, but he suppressed his emotions, knowing that the monster in the cell below was exactly what he had intended to create.

Egil should have been immune to the harrowing imagery; to the realization that he had taken a life and corrupted the fabric of its being. Compassion was a burden; an obstacle that stood between him and his goal. Xord, or Bronze Face, as he was referred to by Egil, was not the first of his creations. There had been many Faced Mechon before him—so many that Egil had given up calling them by name. Rather, he attached rudimentary titles to the machines themselves, which had been recycled and reused countless times. Xord was just the latest incarnation of Bronze Face, and it was likely that he would not be the last.

The process of trial and error had conditioned Egil not to feel empathy in the vast majority of cases—but even though he thought he had seen it all, he would still get shaken up every so often. It was so hard for Egil to free himself of human emotion; to purge the mercy that ran in his blood and harden himself into an impenitent machine—and yet it would be so easy to do the same to his subjects by way of control and subjugation.

He had watched the early machines overheat and cook their Core Units alive. He had seen Faced Mechon shut down unexpectedly partway through the transfer of their blood, leaving their Core Units as empty shells. The process would cause subjects to lose their minds, driving them mad to the point that they were unable to function. One Face, despite being in perfect condition, had refused to cooperate and begged to be killed. Egil had no choice but to carry out her wishes.

Egil had only been met with success once, in the form of a Faced Mechon known as Metal Face. Metal Face was somewhat of an oddity—to have found a Homs predisposed to murderous tendencies, and one willing to submit himself to Egil's interests, had been a stroke of pure luck. Egil could not afford to seek out similar Homs, not only because it would be wildly impractical, but also because Metal Face's depravity made him uncomfortable. There was a fine line between apathy and savagery, which Egil did not wish to cross as he worked toward his goal. His subjects should have been motivated by necessity, not bloodlust.

Indeed, necessity was the basis on which Egil had built his latest modification to Bronze Face's design: what he dubbed its "self-preservation mechanism". He had deliberately reduced the machine's ether efficiency, making it require a near constant supply of ether in order to survive. When Bronze Face's ether levels were low, its Core Unit's brain would shut off all extraneous functions, making it focus solely on locating and consuming ether. That way, even if a Face resisted, it would eventually have no choice but to kill. It would be risky, but what did Egil have to lose?

The wellbeing of individual Core Units was low on Egil's list of priorities. He sought to devise blueprints for the ideal Faced Mechon, and he had no qualms with going through as many Homs as he needed to achieve his goal. Homs were an abundant resource: he had collected a great number of soldiers who had been killed during his initial attack on Bionis and preserved their bodies. Egil would augment the Core Units with mechanical parts, both because their organic bodies were often in poor condition and so Egil could attach them to their Face Units.

Egil's knowledge of Mechon was second to none. He knew all of their intricacies; he could take them apart and put them together again, and he could program them to perform any number of tasks. They were predictable by nature, and, as machines, they lacked free will and individuality. Homs were jarringly different: they had their own wants, values, and opinions. A living being with sentience was not at all like a Mechon, which was why the concept of Faced Mechon was so preposterous—but as preposterous as it was, there were no alternatives. Egil's entire plan rested upon the integration of the Core Unit; melding the Homs and Mechon into a single being.

Egil continued to observe Bronze Face, holding his chin pensively. Bronze Face's movements made it clear that he was distressed. He was rocking back and forth and making pathetic whimpering noises, but somehow it didn't make him any less imposing. He appeared to be on the verge of snapping, like a cornered animal. It was exactly what Egil had been expecting, and he had no intention of intervening. He wanted to keep the Face in solitary confinement, leaving him in the dark and making him so afraid that he would see Egil as his savior when he finally revealed himself to him. That way, he would be compelled to obey.

All Mechon were Egil's to control, and Faced Mechon were no exception. It would be impossible for Egil to manage an entire army of Mechon piloted by Homs, however. His subjects needed to be brainwashed. They needed to have all traces of emotion and independent thought eradicated from their beings, until all that remained of them were soulless, subservient husks. Core Units would have the flesh and blood of Homs, but their minds would be indistinguishable from the machines in which they dwelt.

Egil exited the observation deck and walked down the corridor. He had only intended to monitor Bronze Face's activation and first feeding, and since everything had gone smoothly, there was no reason for him to stick around. He had other matters to attend to while Bronze Face endured his isolation.

Though this incarnation of the Mechon appeared to be stable, there was much for Egil to do before he could be sure. It would be a long, meticulous process, but even though he planned to construct an entire army of the machines, Egil would never have to go through it again once he was confident that he had built the perfect Faced Mechon. There would be a day when Face Units identical to Bronze Face's would be cranked out on assembly lines and Core Units would be indoctrinated en masse—but that day was not today.


End file.
